People are strange animals (to another blog)

1) Recognition
2) Approximation
3) Conquest
4) Familiarity
5) Friendship
6) Motivational exercise using a mirror - The Wild Moth Inside of You

Dogs obey me; cats like me and even moths trust me. You can go through these six steps with some insects, for example. Most people won't go beyond 4. Step four already bores them too much. They want 1, 2, 3, 4, fuck it all up, buy a new one.

Before you kill an insect, you should remember it might be nobler than you. And attacking something nobler than you makes you even meaner.

If you watch insects for a while you’ll discover wisdom in them (if you have any wisdom in yourself, that is, that could relate to theirs). Most insects, for example, are ignoring people most of the time. If you get close, they’ll just move away. Fly around, and so on... If you don’t like that insect and can’t simply ignore him, you also should think twice before attacking something wiser than you.

Dogs obey me; cats like me and even moths trust me. And I like beautiful lights glowing in the dark. I keep myself pure and innocent, and I like blue lights glowing in the dark. That’s very dangerous, naturally. You can check your wikipedia to verify that angler fishes occur worldwide. Though I learn some wise things with my insect friends – ignoring is sometimes very difficult, though I manage to do it – I do not like angler fishes at all.

They probably look just like a beautiful glowing light to you. And some say they were only a beautiful glowing light, at the beginning. But they let things grow and here’s how they end up looking like, when you can see them:

I also like bees a lot. I’ve had more than one of them friendly walking over me. Bees could attack you anytime, but they won’t. And if they do, they’ll die.

I’ve felt like attacking things nobler than me, when I was younger, but I understood by then I was in the same position of a bee. If you attack something nobler than you, something in you will die. It might be that notgoodenough piece of nobility you still had, you know. If it wasn't good enough, maybe you could have used that nobler thing you attacked to help you grow it. Otherwise, even more and more things will suddenly grow nobler than you too. So before you attack something, you should seriously consider the question: "Am I nobler than what I attack, or is it nobler than me?"

When bees sting me, it’s sad. I don’t even mind the sting itself - dogs obey me; cats like me and even moths trust me, so stings won’t hurt me more than they could hurt the attacker. But I do feel kinda sad because something good will die. And though I’m always prompt to help, when things get to this point I must remember my insect wisdom and just stop writing.

:|

My very own madness

Queridos manzaneros,

Les dije alguna vez que este espacio es sagrado? Como un parque de juegos, aquí lo que está en juego no son cosas de vida o muerte, son mas importantes. Comunicación sobre la vida, la muerte y la sexualidad de las mariposas.

Hay un sociólogo loco, odiado por muchos utopistas, que decía que la sociedad no es un conjunto de personas, sino un entramado de comunicaciones. El descartar la individualidad de la sociedad no le hizo ninguna gracia a sus colegas, estudiantes o lectores. Al parecer generaba crisis existenciales monumentales. Claro, si el carácter y la voluntad personal no importan en una sociedad, entonces qué sentido tiene el intercambio?

Es un error interpretativo.

La persona está mas que nunca presente...es sólo otro sistema...un sistema síquico con capacidad para generar comunicaciones, osea para percibir la alteridad.

Pero lo que se crea de esta capacidad no es una suma de personas...es otra cosa. Comunicación.

Y la comunicación es capaz de recrearse a si misma. It´s aliiiiiiiiive! :-)

Fin del paréntesis

Aunque no creo que tenga el copyright, ni mucho menos, soy una gran creadora de locura. A veces lo disfruto brutalmente, a veces mi locura me consume brutalmente. Es cómo un pártido interminable de tenis. Al menos estoy segura de que algo estoy jugando, y es posible que la pelota esté en mi campo. Digamos que es una forma de darme pelota :-B

Bueno, últimamente mi locura está jugando a los rebotes cortos conmigo. Y yo estoy emputecida (enojadísima en chileno) porque el árbitro no le cobra falta. El problema es que no tengo árbitro. O peor, puede ser que el árbitro todavía no me haya aclarado las reglas del juego.

Querido Dios: dónde mierda está el manual?

Respecto a la locura descubrí dos cosas:

1- la única forma de cortar el peloteo infernal es conectarse con la locura ajena. Jugar el partido a cuatro (2 personas y sus 2 locuras) equilibra considerablemente el partido. Chic@s, hay que jugar en dobles.

2- cuando no hay jugadores extras disponibles, está la música.

Mis investigaciones de campo me han llevado a concluir que la música es un santísimo remedio contra la locura.

La locura es como una serpiente (tómate esta, mito del edén, acabo de reinterpretar tu imagen de la tentación de Adan y Eva...in your face!), y cuando se ponga peligrosa la única forma de domesticarla es tocarle una melodía. Entonces se vuelve suave y divertida. Sí.

Ayer entonces, estaba yo caminando locamente por las calles, con esa angustia de mierda pegada a mí cómo sanguijuela. Traté de aturdirla a ronazos con cola. Pero me quedó una angustia aturdida. Solución parche poco recomendable.

Sin previo aviso, aparece una calle con un corazón rojo iluminado gigante colgando, y justo debajo...un escenario. Apago mi iPod.

Música!

En el escenario, hipnotizando una peña apretujada, estaba un grupo de instrumentos con sus hábiles dueños. Y una mina con calcetines de beetlejuice, mas loca que yo (gracias a Dios!), cantaba su locura. En unos cuantos minutos, mi serpiente estaba bailando y mi angustia había desaparecido.

Éramos muchos locos, escuchando música de locos. Fue cómo un partido de fútbol.

Lo soledad es un engaño.

Les compré un disco. Probablemente mi mejor adquisición del año...aunque jamás vuelva a escucharlo.

El arte, al fin y al cabo, es un salvavidas. Y ayer descubrí la importancia de ser buen público.

Por un momento me recordó que la locura es lo menos solitaria que hay...pero es engañosa. Si no fuera por que a algunos locos talentuosos se les ocurre transformar sus delirios en creaciones comunicativas, creeríamos muchos que estamos solos en el mundo.

Aqui van mis gracias a los creativos que tropezaron en mi camino. Manzaneros en general, ustedes me han salvado la vida.

Entonces arreglo mi deuda con el arte que mejor manejo: escribir sobre mi locura.

Por todo eso y más, criaturas creativas, este es un terreno de juego sagrado.

Gracias

Dancing Djinn

La plasha

Tardecita de plasha y juegos de carta varios. En la imagen, los instantes previos a que Amandine no embrochettara a todos con una implacable escalera.


Shinishán
(por más plashitas)

Vintage visitors

Sarah Clee (Wales) wrote at 8:20pm yesterday Feliz Cumpleanos :) Hope you had a wicked party!! Are you still working at paraiso??? I'll be there in one week!!!!! Yaaaaaaaaaay Hasta pronto!!

Wall-to-Wall - Write on Sarah's Wall - Delete

Celine Nicholl (Durham) wrote at 11:32am on July 1st, 2008 Feliz Cumple Nico!! Voy a Barcelona fines de Julio. Quiero verte! Un gran abrazo xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Wall-to-Wall - Write on Celine's Wall - Delete

Pues si, los regresos más esperados. Sarah Clee y Celine Nicholl de vuelta en Barna.


Shinishán

Possessed

Although they try and cry;
the beast is still in me.

Even when I rest I feel my blood pumping.
Something in my room is always filled with sperm.

Television, drugs
work
shopping
sexy games
will not exorcise me.

My name is wild, motherfucker.

There’s no feast
book
pussy
joint
beer
party
word
big enough to satisfy my hunger.



}:)

Adeu bye bye

Tras un año y medio, 1315 check ins, 938 check outs, 317 cambios de cama, 5555 "one o four", 4 overbookings (mentira, hubo alguno más), 5 llegadas tarde (mentira, hubo algunas más), 1 yonkie, 1 ex presidiario, 1 Sarah Clee, 57 "sabanas de cooooorrrrrrrrr" y 104 "aaaaaabre", tras todo eso y más, me fui de los Paraisos. Ilustro mi despedida con fotito de anoche junto a las tres guapas más guapas de Barcelona. Besos, abrazos, "kind regards" y "best wishes".


Yiniyán
(desterrado del Paraíso, me quedo con sus manzanas)

Las Fieras

Ojalá fueran animales las fieras que me persiguen, pero son mas humanas que yo.
El animal soy yo, con el instinto alerta, lista para saltar al vacío por escapar a mis delirios de persecución.
Ya ha pasado tanto tiempo en esa cacería que ya no sé si son ellas las que me persiguen o si soy yo la que va tras ellas.

No tiene importancia...

Lo que sí importa es que tengo el coraje aniquilado. Y cometo crímenes de cobardía...
Y la cobardía deja como un rastro sangriento, que esos demonios olfatean hambrientos.

Y sin coraje no se puede construir nada...se puede soñar mucho.

Así que en esa estamos. En que no sé moverme con la doble contingencia. El misterio de la alteridad me altera.
Me aterra no comprender nada. Entonces pregunto de alguna forma y de cualquier manera me responden con mas acertijos.

¿Estará pensando lo que creo que está pensando?

Me huele que algo anda mal, y es un hedor nauseabundo: "hay algo podrido en el reino de Dinamarca"
Y así es como se cometen suicidios diarios, que seguramente no llevan al Paraiso.

Cuando pienso que alguien me quiere matar, me tiro primero por la ventana...me duele menos porque comprendo mas.
Comprendo que soy una estúpida insegura, pero sé que muero por voluntad propia.

La cobardía y el amor son feroces enemigos, y en mi caso siempre gana la primera. Mas bien, siempre pierdo yo.

No estoy diseñada para estas cosas. Tejer esa relación íntima con otra persona es un enredo. Se me nubla la vista y me lleno de fantasmas. Todo porque de repente importa mas que el otro pueda matarme.

Basta ya.

Mátame de una vez o déjame escapar. Pero no seas esa perfección encubierta, que me recuerda lo tarada que soy y la incapacidad patógena que tengo de amar a otro ser como Dios manda...es decir siguiendo viva.

Yo no sirvo para esto

Soy una mierda perfumada y quiero que me caguen de vuelta...

Por lo menos ser una mierda fresca, tiene mas elegancia.

A dar por culo con estas pelotudeces pendejas, me enferman mis paranoias y tengo que seguir funcionando. Por lo tanto amigo, ábreme la ventana y déjame romperme los huesos contra el suelo. Ese por lo menos sé que existe.

Fieras mías, o me devoran ahora o vayan a ver si estoy en la otra punta de la existencia.
Y tu compadre, si quieres enredarte en mi loca telaraña, dime tus verdades porque sino desentierro con mi olfato descalibrado hasta las mas inverosímiles mentiras. Y me las creo.

Jajaj, Soledad!!! Amiga mía! Dónde te habías metido que te había escondido en mi entrañas y no lograba dar contigo?
Tómame la mano que sin tí me siento rodeada de incertidumbre, y susurrame otra vez tu cómoda melodía.

Marineros de mi alma, media vuelta! Nos vamos a casa antes de naufragar en los bajofondos!
Ya puedo oler ese aroma de mi Tierra

Djinn

Yo protesto

Protesto por dentro.
¿Por que protesto?
Por capricho, por egoísmo, por inmadurez, por compañerismo, por envidia..
Protesto porque se va Nico.
Y pataleo y me molesta y me quejo y lo publico..

Sinchan de huelga (pero no de hambre)

El Piso del Diablo

I must excuse myself to this fellowship of Latin gods for speaking in this northern language – I know it’s a taboo among our house members. But "I am slow thinking and full of interior rules that act as brakes on my desires"; I’m always prompt to silence and when it comes to speaking, I have this tendency of only enjoying it if I’m speaking professionally.

Please, forgive me my working idiosyncrasies – probably inconvenient, but certainly harmless – and allow in this room a foreign tongue. I’m a misfit not only in this house of Sudacos, but mostly everywhere I go. I belong to all the groups, and to none at all. In every room, I’m used to being the stranger. And if I advertise nothing, I’m also reluctant to hide; sometimes it shows.

In my professional talking activities, I’m already exploring irresponsibly the English market. And even though a huge center of affection somewhere along my soul intensively craves for absorbing Spanish just to join deeper into the world of my dear god companions, I can’t spend my scarce resources diving into a third language marketing. I’m small and my existence has a short fuse – I feel that only a breeze parts me from nothing.

My blog community just grew, and now I must unify this virtual universe in a single tongue inside my mouth.

A man I trust once wrote we are all islands – and that no matter how many bridges we build, the abyss is always there.

Weren’t we, from the beginning, loud gods screaming from the distances of their islands? Aren’t we all united solely by our voices?

I call for you all, and when you scream back, or even when you just listen, you touch me. I’m lonely. I want to speak, when I can turn the words into a leaping pole and get to you; or when I can’t accomplish farther than only trying it, and fall face to the ground.

You are all dear to me, because we touched – and you were all, in your each and only particular way, very friendly towards me. And though I speak an inferior language to your ears, you should know that it fits, for I bow.

I want to touch more. I feel isolated in my room, my earphones, mostly anywhere at all. I want to make more dears friends and companions. And all you, screaming gods, are invited:

www.elpisodeldiablo.blogspot.com

Otra boca abierta, pero esta no es petera

Bueno, bueno, la vulgaridad y el mal gusto han llegado a límites insospechados. Un poco de recato señores, una mica de seriedad, una gota de decoro, es lo que pido.

En 1892, mientras se recuperaba de una enfermedad en Niza, Edward Munch escribió en su diario: "Iba caminando con dos amigos por el paseo -el sol se ponía-, el cielo se volvió de pronto rojo, yo me paré; cansado, me apoyé en una baranda -sobre la ciudad y el fiordo azul oscuro no veía sino sangre y lenguas de fuego-, mis amigos continuaban su marcha y yo seguía detenido en el mismo lugar temblando de miedo, y sentía que un alarido infinito penetraba toda la naturaleza".
De vuelta al lenguaje y su insuficiencia, "El grito" representa para mí un instante inscripto en lo que Jacques Lacan llama el registro de lo real, de lo inefable, esos lugares que el lenguaje no puede alcanzar. El grito de angustia se sitúa en los límites del lenguaje verbal, y lo que no es claro es en qué lado de la línea ubicarlo. El grito de Munch en particular, de un rostro-máscara que pareciera a punto de ser succionado por la zigzagueante lengua de agua, está incluso aún más lejos de la palabra; siempre he pensado que esa pintura representa una escena muda, sin sonidos, un grito que quiere ser grito y, sin embargo, no consigue trascender el mero gesto.


Yiniyán
(Promoviendo el arte en pos del buen gusto)

Esto no es una pipa

=) 69

Los ojos de Boya

El lenguaje, y por lenguaje no me refiero sólo a combinaciones de letras reguladas según un conjunto de reglas (gramática), nos plantea una paradoja insalvable. Constituye para nosotros, seres humanos, el modo más certero de acercamiento, comprensión y transmisión de nuestra experiencia en el mundo pero, al mismo tiempo, desde que no puede ser más que representación de la misma, nos aleja de ella. Nada de lo que vemos es lo que vemos, sino la representación mental que de ello nos hemos creado y su traducción en algún tipo de lenguaje: verbal, sonoro, de imagen. Los mapas, paradigmáticos en este sentido, organizan nuestra concepción del planeta Tierra. Y aquí la cuestión es de detalle y perspectiva; los continentes están tan lejos unos de otros que, lógicamente imposibilitados de elevarnos y mirar el conjunto en perspectiva, alejamos los bloques de tierra y así, miniaturizados, los plasmamos en un papel.

En el blog de Boya, lucecita coreana que pasó por Downtown, encontré este mapa. Al igual que los nuestros, no es el planeta sino una de sus miles posibles representaciones. Una que no es más ni menos cierta que las otras. Acaso este mapa sea, aquí en este blog, queridos parlantes, queridos humanos, piadosos explicadores del mundo, una espina pequeña, casi imperceptible, clavada en un surco. Y acaso no deberían leerme, ni a mí ni a nadie, y bien podrían quemar sus libros, o utilizarlos para equilibrar la pata de la mesa del salón, y subirse a un árbol, o mirar el mar, porque en cada hoja y cada ola hay más verdad que en todo este sinsentido de blancas letritas.

Yiniyán

À beira-mar o novo Olimpo – Barcelona. O novo Zeus foi duas cores se amando. 69. O equilíbrio chino. Em Barcelona o novo Olimpo, várias Vênus. Um fauno. Eu.

Das coisas grandes - gigantescas criações - me afasto. Procuro um canto pra tocar minha flauta. Em displicência vou lamber minhas ninfas.

Quero distância de quem diz “Um sátiro”. Entre paredes vivo quase isolado. Busco esquecer se posso que o meu bafo é frio. Meu nariz grosseiro. O meu peito, amargo. Meu sorriso, fácil.

De solidão já basta o breu do meu ergástulo – minha sina é clara e sempre fede a calabouço. Se eu venho aqui é que me cansa minha masmorra.

Um deus que cria. Tantas Vênus que embelezam. Por onde andam?

:?

Hola queridos y queridas!
Despues de mucho ententar, yo he conseguido la maldita contraseña.
Mi nuevo trabajo. Despues de camarero y cozinero en bar gay, recepcionista en hostel, striper, aupair, aca estoy. Despues de muchos paises como England, Spain, The Netherlands, Denmark y muchos otros, aca estoy. Nueva Zelandia.
Estoy trabajando en el Adjutamento (?!?!) de la ciudad que estoy vivindo ahora. Hamilton City Council. Hago de todo un poco. Pero mi funcion es webdeveloper. Hay una penca de argentinos y chilenos aca. Muchos. Solo se escucha castellano en la calle! jajaja
Bueno que practico mi castellano.
Estoy vivindo en un pequenito piso con 2 habitaciones, una salita, cozina y baño. Yo y mi novia (como se dice fianceé en castellano?). Trabajo 8 horas/dia, 5 dias en la semana. Tengo mi coche, no tengo amigos todavia pero si compañeros de trabajo y amigos de mi chica. La qualidad de vida aca es buenissima y un poco cara. Pero bue, se cobra muy bien en el final de cada semana.
La gente es muy destinta. Hay mucha gente guay y mucha gente loca. Como en toda parte!
No hay autobuses porque todos tienen coches y hay una linea de buses en el centro pero es gratis.
Hay tambien algunos bares y restaurantes pero no me da ganas de ir. Hay un monton de jovensitos rebeldes y les gustan las peleas. Son muy rebeldes estos jovens! Me rompen las pelotas.
El invierno esta llegando pero no hace mucho frio. El verano fue de puta madre!
Todavia estoy en una fase de adaptacion aca. Voy a escribir mas veces y espero que vosotros leiam (leer, to read, ler... no lo se...) y que todos understand mi castellano!
Muchos besos, muchos abrazos y saludos desde aca!
Extraño a todos vosotros!
RastaBRA

:p

Bonus post generated by confusion

:)

A letter to the World Vegetarians

It is absolutely normal for an intelligent person to be distressed by the idea of killing and devouring an animal--we experience the same discomfort about it. One can have very fruitful relations with most animals we eat and it does feel deranged to feast upon them.

Furthermore, and notwithstanding this personal relation, a sensitive Man can still sympathize with the animal’s primal urge--that we also feel--to simply be alive. We can understand that.

Nevertheless, if we confront these feelings with daily life, we will learn that eating meat, in moderation, is a perfectly healthy, natural behavior shared by many species; It is not a perversion of any sort.

If the idea of killing and eating an animal is really so hostile and deranged to you--if you find yourself utterly disgusted by the presence of a dead cow inside a supermarket--our immediate wonder is: “Why do you not feel the same way about vegetables?”

Plants are alive too, you know... Even if you have never spent time enough among them to feel it in your conscience, you most certainly have learned this in school. There is no discussion: Vegetables are alive, just like we are; They are living beings, like the animals you refuse to swallow.

However, in complete discordance with this simple piece of common knowledge, we still consider (in the back of our minds) that these beautiful entities are outcasts--pagans!--probably only because they have no eyes, no voice... No immediate connection to awaken our senses out of the stupid denying of life to the vegetal world.

To say that a plan cannot feel, because it has no nervous central system, is like saying that bats cannot see, because they perceive no light. We are not the center of the world, as the book of Genesis (and the entire bible, really, with its human-like God) suggests. If a living being cannot feel the world through the same tools we humans do, it does not mean they cannot feel at all.

If a plant is damaged, it releases hormones to make it more difficult to eat and actually slightly poisonous. How can you deny their suffering? This is no casual observation, but a scientific fact. When plants are hurt, they try to protect themselves. Only because they cannot bleed, or cry, or scream, will you pretend it is alright?

Though we cannot relate ourselves to a banana the same way we could do it with a dog (unless you are a pervert, of course, which would not surprise me) the fact remains that vegetables are living beings and that we rip them out of the ground and eat them.

And we--horrible hungry Men--are not the only ones doing it. Cute bunnies do it too.

#

Absolutely everything--everything--that can be fit into biology is nothing but the history of vegetables and their parasites. There is no way around it. We are bloody fucking parasites and we eat the living so that we will survive; kill yourself, or get over it.

We must put ourselves in the position of a little kid who is averse to needles and needs to take an injection. We are not perfect, and some times it is wise to admit our feelings are wrong. So, despite our personal disposition towards this subject, we encourage ourselves, in moderation, to kill and eat fellow sentient beings--animals or plants, indistinctly--not only as a necessity to survive, but also as a path to enlightenment; For the pure act of eating, if properly understood and imbued with the right meaning, will help deteriorating ignorant illusions blocking our way to reality, freedom and true peace.

#

It is also common knowledge that many among your group became vegetarians not for the mere repulsion to eat meat, but as a passive attack against companies that cruelly mistreat the animals destined to become food.

“We cannot support this industry”, we have heard for a long time, from many different mouths. This is also a desire we can admire. We are against animal abuse too but, unfortunately, a passive resistance as simple as not buying meat does not appear, in reality, to have any influence over the Machine.

If the majority of the population suddenly did the same, then maybe your plan would have a chance--maybe! But, as discussed previously, eating meat is a natural behavior and it will continue. You cannot trust a plan to save the whole planet if this plan only works after 80% of the population starts an anomalous food program. The Beast says “Fit!”, and most are not eager to be an anomaly. There are few of us out there who are willing to fight. Our individual economical power is not significant enough to make the Machine bleed. So let us think of another individual power that can work like a knife and help us in our fight: Knowledge.

#

Real knowledge begins with Socrates. Not to have read Socrates dialogues is like being an analphabet. In those books, one can find the very Guiding Manual of Being a Man.

Concerning the topic of this letter, a basic analysis of Plato’s Republic will clearly demonstrate that when Men group themselves together in a city--and divide the different jobs among different people--the removal of garbage from the streets will depend much more on the character of the garbage-man than on the character of anyone else.

Any given city can be entirely populated by recycling-freaks environmentalists who never miss a trash can and still be completely filthy if the garbage-man, for example, is a drunk pedophile fucker who never works and can only think about collecting public fees and sniffing powder with underaged prostitutes.

Through the same process, a city filled with the lamest teenagers in the world would still shine clean if taken care by a real version of the super heroes we see in toothpaste commercials.

If you are worried about garbage on the streets, creating sophisticated means to deal with your own trash and stimulating it between your neighbors will change nothing. You must aim at the garbage-man. You must attack him and take his place, or force him to work properly.

Boycotting meat, or any product sold in a large scale, is pretty similar to praying--It makes you feel better, and it changes nothing.

We need to attack--that is what we do. And as we already have a solid plan, now all we need is power to sink the knife in.

We need more soldiers by our side and for that reason we want your group to dissolve. Demons are those who deprive a society of its fighting energy. Fiends! Your whole ideology is no better than a bible with crucified broccolis in the place of Jesus. Your World Vegetarians disseminate words of a false salvation and leads people into the belief that meaningless selfishness and vanity acts resume their social obligations.

If you teach a warrior he is doing enough by simply buying selected products while the enemy burn our houses and rape our women you are evil and you must perish--this is why we have kidnapped your leader.

#

A minor boycott will never cause the food industry to collapse. Even at the impossible perfect scenario of your deceiving plan, if you had magically convinced the whole world population to stop eating the animals, you could not simply stop to eat at all.

The big companies are not a bunch of balls inertly falling. They are not commanded by gravity or any other unmollifiable law; It adapts! And even now, as the percentage of non-meat-eaters is ludicrously small, these companies already make a gravy train over your silly utopia of breaking them.

All they need to do is change a logo and dive at the pool of any other market; Suddenly you are feeding them again, giving your money away for those nice soy products--and if you are infuriated about the animals, do not dare thinking they treat those grains any better.

#

In forests all over the world, where many of us were raised, there are indians who feel they must excuse themselves to a three before cutting it down. They ask the trees for their permission and then they apologize.

We have spent most of our lives among plants and we know they are alive.

When you look at all the vegetables we eat, you should also realize they did not come from a beautiful hilltop, where they had the best cozy sun every morning and the fairly undisputed floor from which to suck different dishes from time to time. They are not given the joy of the refreshing surprise of the rain. Most of the vegetables you eat never felt the rain, or even natural sunlight. These plants did not have a normal wild life where they could get some kind of affective relation with other elements of Nature.

Plants can also sense things and communicate, in some levels, with whatever surrounds them, be it a Man, a passing fox, a bird nesting upon them, or even just another plant living nearby.

The vegetables we eat lived confined and planted in series, artificially lighten and fed and abnormally grown with chemicals to please our tastes and commercial conveniences--just like the pigs, ducks and cows you say you are willing to fight for.

#

Do not fool yourself. Our food industry is perverse, but that is only a small part of this huge industrial evil that took hold of our society.

The garbage-man is a hooker and the actual hookers became role models! The mayor is greedy, the police is blood thirsty and the workers are drugged; The doctor is sick, the teacher is crazy, the layer is guilty and the list goes on and on forever...

You can not change all of that with a fucking diet! There are few of us willing to fight, and you collect these golden seeds for what? Fiends! You guide them into your infantile playground, where they are taught that all we need to do in order to save the planet is wasting our blessed time in futile forgoings, such as longing for a roast beef.

#

Leading people into the belief that boycotting meat will solve things is preposterous. It is criminal! Reducing people’s capacity to fight by giving them a social religion that turns recycling into prayer and donation into tithing is wrong. You cannot make people feel ok about themselves as the world around us burn. Just look around! The rivers are poisoned, the smoke rises and the buildings fall. People must fight!

People must get mad, first, so they will be eager to do the things that really matters--and that is what we do. We take action.

You, members of the World Vegetarians organization, take away from the individuals their desire for revolution and their ability to engage combat. You canalize these feelings into a bunch of useless, fairytale crap--the same way religion exploits the good intentions of a population, turning them into a bunch of humble, humiliated slaves.

You teach this people that by staging insignificant personal behaviors they are actually doing what is necessary and that, after becoming vegetarians, they do not need to think about revolting any longer. Your organization has been considered harmful, and the kidnapping of your leader is actually a good deed by your own standards.

We are not open to negotiation and we do not ask for a ransom. We simply want your group to dismember. It will not be a great loss.

You are nothing more than silly dreamers and amateurs--there is no point in keeping a conglomerate of these.

We are true revolutionaries. Actually, not revolutionaries; this word has already lost its monster-like significance. They ripped it out of its true meaning, so that old fighters could have their stamp sold as another market-related, harmless products to satisfy people’s rebellion desire.

The proper word to describe our potential is not revolution, but terrorism. This is what the Machine reports to be fighting against, so that is exactly who we are.

We will not seat upon your asses and read nutritional information out of colored packs--suspecting soups and risotto, insanely looking of any traces of Rennet or gelatin, as if they were the true enemies--while the whole world collapses at our feet.

We act and we fight, and we have a wise knife.

#

We want those among you who share our honest rage against the Machine o join our cause. And we know they will eventually come to us, as soon as we release them from the clutches of these deceiving fantasies you create. We need these soldiers, and we do understand that simply dismembering your group will not help. They could simply join any other (or none) and keep this vegetarian nonsense till their dying day; and that is why we needed your leader. We are prepared to create a counterpoint which will release our brothers.

#

Our organization has planned in silence for many years. We do not want to call attention to ourselves. We do not want special products or any other type of insecurity driven social self-imposed status.

We waited patiently. During these long, productive years we have done much and said nothing.

Concerning particularly this vegetarian problem, it is time for you all to know that we have infiltrated strategic targets of your food industry.

In the specific cell under my supervision, the youngest generation of our silent warriors spent almost their whole lifes among plants. I, myself, and my two immediate managers come from so deep in Brazilian forests that the simple fact of living in a modern city--in order to finally set our candles on fire--feels immoral and oppressive. We are not afraid to sacrifice our very lives; none of us!

And by now we have huge farms; we have gigantic crops and we know everything about them.

Needless to say that this ability to sacrifice and this knowledge about what we do granted us a top position among the vegan/vegetarian market. In a way that (through your own reasoning) as long as you keep this foolish lifestyle, maybe you are no longer supporting the farmers who abuse animals--but you are supporting us!

You have funded the very kidnapping of your leader and many other revolutionary acts that will be developed in order to force the potentially active population out of their alienating contention cells.

We are rising and you will help us, one way or the other.

Please, do not be too sensitive about it. We live in a harsh world--you must understand that. If you see a snake ready to bite you, will you not kill it? To live in a harsh world, but as free, enlightened Men!

Your leader, it feels appropriate to say, is being treated with great hospitality and he even gained some weight.

He does not know it yet, but he is destined to provide us with further enlightenment, as he is about to find the same end of all our vegan/vegetarian strategic targets:

We will eat him.

RAGTFTP|JPNRDC

(Red Alert Group--Through Freedom we will have True Peace!

Jonathan Pearce, Neal Richman and Douglas Cassady)

:)

ehh....

ya ninguno va a escribir mas aca????

yo no tengo reflexiones improtantes, ni novedades confirmadas, ni nada de eso. tampoco quiero decir nada relevante (como siempre) pero queria dejar constancia de mi existencia y de las ganas que tengo de volver a ver cosas copadas en este blogg del orrrrrto.

....sino, tendre que proceder a mearlos.

Helartista
(artista extremo)
(artista enfermo)

MASS MEDIA

De los medios de comunicación
en este mundo tan codificado
con internet y otras navegaciones
yo sigo prefiriendo
el viejo beso artesanal
que desde siempre comunica tanto

Lo escribió Benedetti y lo posteo yo para compartirlo con vosotros..
Hay que besarse más!
Ya lo dijo Galán!
Sinchán

Me fui

Después de largos 3 años, el día miércoles 26 ,a las 16hs (y si mi recambio llega en horario) se romperá el maleficio, se abrirá el tapper, me caeré de la cama, me arremangaré, respiraré pronfundo y me iré del Paraiso rumbo a lo desconocido.

Aunque quisiera festejar con todos ustedes (sin guiris de por medio), esa misma noche me voy a Madrid porque me mola hacer trámites, pero el sábado ya estaré de vuelta y pretendo hacer una movida recepcionalmente única, donde no se borre ningun garca, ni ningún turno ni nungún hostal sea excluido (que trabajen los jefes,coño!), ni que sea muy caro porque todavía no encontre trabajo, en donde en armonia, opdamos celebrar el simple hecho de CAMBIAR.

Vayamos viendo que hongo y ya veremos que surje.

Helartista
(En pleno subidón 100%)

José

- Hola, ¿puedo pasar?
- ¿Tienes reserva?
- No, quería preguntar algo sobre el hostal
- Estamos completos, hasta después de Semana Santa -dije como para poner fin a una típica conversación de portero eléctrico.
- ¿Eres Nicolás? Tú me conoces, quiero saludarte.
- ¿Quién eres?
- José
- ...
- José, estuve aquí con Karen, hace unos meses
- Ahhh, José, pasa

No había pensado en José en mucho tiempo. Tampoco en Karen, pero su nombre resultó inmediata contraseña para que decidiera abrir la puerta. José y Karen habían estado hospedados en el hostal unos cinco o seis meses antes. Su reserva era sólo por un par de noches, y luego agregaron otra y otra. Querían instalarse en Barcelona. En esos días, yo los había ayudado en la búsqueda de piso y les había dado algunos consejos útiles sobre la vida en la ciudad.
Una tarde, mientras Karen leía sus mails, me fumé un cigarro con José en el patio del hostel. Aunque lo disimulaba bastante bien, él estaba lleno de miedos e incertidumbres. Temía a lo desconocido, a la dolorora posibilidad del fracaso, a esta aventura en la que se había metido, hoy sospecho que auspiciada por ella, a costa de dejar una vida relativamente cómoda en Méjico. Él era informático, o diseñador gráfico, y trabajaba para un empresa de San Diego, en California. Tenía las cosas muy fáciles el cabrón, podía seguir currando desde Barcelona, París o Tokyo, lo mismo daba. Pero aunque se repetía una y otra vez que de última, si las cosas no salían como lo esperaban, podían pegar un avión y volver a Méjico, creo que en el fondo sentía que esa vuelta sería un poco con el rabo entre las piernas y la orejitas tiradas hacia atrás, casi pidiendo perdón por su locura fallida. Esa tarde, entre calada y calada, traté de quitarle sus miedos. Le dije que si de verdad era lo que querían, no tenían por qué temer, que les iba a salir bien, que las cosas se les iban a ir presentando casi sin llamarlas. Le dije que no era fácil, pero que el riesgo de intentarlo valía la pena, sea cual fuera el resultado. Nuestra conversación duró unos cinco minutos, y terminó con la última calada.
No recuerdo la profesión de Karen. Tengo la vaga idea de que era profesora de algo, pero aquí pensaba trabajar de lo que encontrara. Le sugerí que dejara sus datos en el hostel, podía ser una buena recepcionista. No era una loba despampanante, su punto no iba por ahí, pero era pacíficamente atractiva. Recuerdo especialmente su nariz, no sé por qué.
Eran una linda pareja, se los veía bien juntos. Yo los miraba y, ya casi un axioma de mis dos años en Barcelona, encontraba a ella mejor parada que a él. He conocido muchas parejas en este tiempo, y ahora mismo puedo nombrar a una sola en la que ella no me deslumbrara más que él, la de Nati y Fede. Ellos si están equilibrados.
Unos días después de que dejaran el hostel, recibí un mail de José. Me agradecía por mi ayuda y me decía que estaban bien, y que habían encontrado un piso. Yo le contesté, alegrándome por las buenas noticias, y desde entonces hasta hoy no supe nada más de ellos.

José entró al hostal acompañado por tres amigos, más enérgico y verborrágico de lo que lo recordaba. Estaba borracho. Me dio la mano con firmeza, mirándome a los ojos, y después intercambió algunas bromas con unos norteamericanos que bebían animadamente en la sala. -Nicolás, he venido hasta aquí para saludarte, para decirte que Karen y yo estamos muy bien, y para agradecerte todo lo que has hecho por nosotros. Lo miré con cierta cautela, y le pregunté cómo iba su vida en Barcelona. Me dijo que estaban felices, que él seguía trabajando para la empresa de San Diego y que Karen había encontrado un curro.
-Y gracias a tí, que me diste ánimo cuando más lo necesitaba, ¿te acuerdas?. Este güey -dijo dirigiéndose a sus amigos- me dijo que no me preocupara, que todo iba a salir bien.
- Me alegro mucho, José.
- Porque ellos -siguió, refiriéndose a los tres que lo acompañaban en silencio- no saben lo que es esto. Pero tú sí, porque tú también lo hiciste. El güey llegó hace dos años con su novia a Londres, a Londres! -le dijo al mayor de sus amigos, un tío que rondaba los cuarenta- y cuando les quedaban treinta libras decidieron quedarse allí, y lo hicieron, buscaron un trabajo y se quedaron.
Todo era cierto, hasta la cantidad exacta, pero yo ni recordaba haberle contado esa historia en la tarde del cigarro. -Me alegro, José, qué bueno saber que todo les vaya bien. ¿Cómo está Karen?. Mis preguntas y comentarios, breves, apenas lograban convertir ese monólogo de gratitud en un diálogo de dos.
- Ella está muy bien, y yo también. Gracias Nicolás, tu eres un gran amigo, porque me ayudaste cuando más lo necesitaba, y por eso vine hoy, para agradecértelo. Y para agradecerte también que me hayas contestado el mail.
Aunque condimentadas por el alcohol, sus palabras eran sinceras. Y su mano, que estrechaba sólidamente la mía, me transmitió un afecto del que no dudé ni un momento.
-Es un buen perro -intervino por primera y única vez el mejicano de cuarenta- Un buen perro, muy emocional.
-Está bueno que me digas esto, José, muchas veces uno hace cosas sin saber lo que pueden generar en los demás.
José enfocó sus ojos vidriosos hacía mí y, como si no pudiera resistir más la emoción, me dio una palmada y giró su cara, escondiendo la primera lágrima. -Ya está, vamos, vamos -dijo a sus compañeros. Y abrazando al cuarentón, sin mirar atrás, caminó hacia la salida. Recordé eso de que el perro es el mejor amigo del hombre. "Y viceversa", pensé. Miré por última vez a José, antes de seguir trabajando. Su aventura iba bien y sus miedos casi ausentes. Me pareció que movía el rabo, de lado a lado, en señal de alegría. Pero las orejas, ay, cómo evitarlo, llevaba las orejas tiraditas hacia atrás, así, casi pidiendo perdón.

Yiniyán

Diferentes puntos de vista

Name: Meghan Gallagher
Customer ID: 8927991
email: meghan_gallagher@mac.com
Arrival Date:: 2008-02-27
Booked: 2008-01-21 11:14:57
Source: HOSTELWORLD

Hostel Review

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Comments - ACTIVE
The girl working at the desk on the morning of the 29th was incredibly rude and unwilling to help. Everything was a problem for her even though all we needed was to stow our luggage away. She felt it necessary to whine about how she had to eat her breakfast first and that it would be a huge problem to store our luggage because other people would put theirs on top of ours and we would have trouble getting it out at the end of the day. wtf?


Helartista

Instinto asesino

Lo mio es la queja, improductiva queja. Una de las peores formas para envenenar este sitio tan sagrado, pero a la vez es parte de la idea general de este microempredimiento llamado "el loco manzanar" donde solo quedamos los valientes que al emanar constantemente nuestra creatividad, no podemos evitar plasmarla aqui. Pero como ya lo dije antes, lo mio es la queja, y eso fue lo que hice ayer, tras haber pasado uno de los días mas agobiantes en mucho tiempo. Por suerte solo (solo??) es papeleo tramiteril y, como dijo Mirtha, la mujer de mi papá," al menos no tenés problemas de salud."
En fin, que despues de estar pariendo un dia jodidisimo en los Madriles queridos solo para hacer trámites, llega la hora de la tan ansiada vuelta a casa, y casi como un obviedad (se anticipaba en mi negatividad continua que venia arrastrando desde las 6 15 de la mañana), el vuelo que salia a las 2215 se retraso 1 hora.
Rios de furia salieron por mis venas.Sin darme cuenta, estaba con la mandíbula contraida, apretando los dientes en forma de protesta personal. Creo que también empecé sudar. Como buena argentina que soy, empecé a putear para mis adentros (...puta madre que los pario....) y a levantar cierto revuelo: "que nos quedamos sin trasporte público, esto es una verguenza, etc,etc".La peña se puso de-la-cabeza...empezaron a brotar hojas de reclamación del escritorio de la entrada de la gate. En eso viene un señor y me dice, que ya que estaba que vaya y reclame, y amablemente me ofreció a llevarme a casa en su coche.Le agradezco y , despues de pensar un rato, me puse a quejarme formalmente contra Vueling cual española idignada(cuando en realidad estaba haciendo la gran argentina buscando que me den 20 mangos para un taxi que, internamente, sabia que no me iba a tomar porque algo me decia que el aerobus iba hasta la 1 de la mañana.) Pero yo, metida en mi papel reclamé. Reclamé como nunca jamas nadie lo habia hecho.
Pasado el vuelo (odio volar y hubieron turbulencias), pasado el autobus para dejarnos en la terminal desde el avión, salgo exageradamente corriendo en busca de mi aerobus. Claro, el bondi estaba ahi, subo primera, y durante 15 minutos(contado por el reloj que estaba útilmente ubicado sobre la cabeza del conductor) no paran de subir pasajeros....y en eso despues de haber agitado a las masas con mi lema de "a partir de las 00hs no hay trasporte pulico y a mi quien me va a a pagar el taxi?!?!?!?", veo subir a varios de mis discípulos en la revolucion contra Vueling. Hubo severos cruces de miradas. Sentí cierta vergüenza pero también orgullo...aunque sea contradictorio.......pero que poder de dominio que puedo tener, que convincente que habre sonado.......pero a la vez que ridícula, despues de tanto alboroto, estamos todos en este bondi a plaza catalunya, y detras viene otro y de eso otro mas......
En fin, compañeros: un papelón mas para compartir entre amigos.

Lettre d´Amour

Some years ago, I wrote something for you.
I hadn´t met you, and yet, it was dedicated to you. I could sense you, approaching to my life, listo para desembarcar tu alma y llenar mis espacios de ella.

Pour une fois dans mon existence, c´était mon coeur qui allait plus vite. Et sans que je le consulte, comme un coup d´état d´âme, il pris le pouvoir et empoigna le volant.
Et folle comme je suis, je me suis surprise à lui faire confiance.

L´amour est, parait-il, aveugle. Y es cierto que cerré los ojos, y no quise abrirlos más. La ceguera me llenó de aromas, de melodías y texturas. Me volví sensual, como árboles bajo la lluvia, y sentí mi propio perfume. Et au creux de mon oreille, sous les coins cachés de mon épiderme, je sentais m´éffleurer, tes mots.
Aparecieron revelaciones instantáneas, suaves y violentas, de que yo era un puzzle y tus manos las piezas faltantes. Tes mains taillées sur mesure dans la même chair que la mienne. Comme la lisse statue d´Amour que la cruauté aurait cassé en deux.

Je me sens atrophiée, jusqu´à ce que mes mains te touchent, tes lèvres m´embrassent et nos âmes se mélangent, sans jamais se confondre. Como una danza hecha de piel y miradas. Y no es que no pueda ser yo sin tu presencia, es sólo que tu existencia, cuando se encuentra con la mía, convierte nuestros colores en una obra de arte.

¿Como no añorar como enferma el jardín que crecía con nuestro baile? ¿y no encontrar absurdo que ya no bailes conmigo?

Estoy enferma y no tengo dudas, tengo certezas heridas de muerte.

Djinn

Nunca Jamás

Esta es mi infancia felizzz!!!...

Se me ocurre, compañeros manzaneros, que a veces es bueno dar pasos atrás o volver la vista...aunque sea para tomar vuelo (y es que volar es todo un arte!). Todos deberíamos alguna vez emplearnos seriamente (es mas...sin ninguna seriedad) a volver a ver todas esas pelis de Disney que mirábamos en pijamas después de romperle tanto las bolas a los viejos. Sospecho que se deshacían un poco de nosotros plantándonos frente a la pantalla. Sospecho aun mas ya que en el fondo pedían a gritos sentarse con nosotros...y tomar chocolate caliente cantando canciones, partiendose de la risa con las travesuras sin exito de los malos de turno...y llorar por la muerte de la mamá de Bambi (a cuantos sicólogos hemos dado que comer con ese trauma?).

Cómo en mi piso somos todas niñas con pretensiones de adultas...o vice versa, la colección de pelis Disney está en crecimiento. Y hoy decidí honrarla viendo Peter Pan (el némesis del sicólogo...freudiano al menos).

Cuando decía que presiento que mis viejos hubieran querido sentarse conmigo a ver esas distracciones (plagadas de mensajes culturales), es que ahora que vuelvo a ver la peli, la persona de la cual mas me acuerdo es mi padre. Mi viejo nunca trató de aguantarse las ganas de ser niño con nosotros (el gran drama de mi madre, evidentemente), y cuando el cocodrilo hace sus mañas hilarantes y Garfio grita que es un bacalao, recuerdo que el primero en partirse de risa era mi viejo.
Comportamiento infantil, síndrome de Peter Pan, regresión condenable?...Pamplinas! Que mi padre se supiera los diálogos casi mejor que nosotros era hermoso. Esa complicidad nos salvó después de muchos desastres emocionales, y es tan agradable recordarlo...

Hace poco le dije a mi viejo que estaba tan feliz que él hubiera sido mi padre. Y si hace falta volver a ver esas pelis para caer en la cuenta de lo importante que fueron esos momentos, entonces, tres hurras por Walt, por los hermanos Warner, Grimm, y por Perault!!!

Lo cierto es que también tuvieron efectos desastrosos sobre nuestras personalidades, ideales y percepciones de la realidad. Ahora las veo con otros ojos y comprendo mejor.
Me dejaron trastornos que pago con intereses, pero también, secretamente y cuando duermo, me enseñaron la receta mágica para volar a la tierra del Nunca Jamás (el pais de las sentencias absolutas de la infancia). El problema es aprender a volver. Y para eso, todos lo sabemos, no hay recetas mágicas.

Djinn

«Etre homme, c'est précisément être responsable. C'est sentir, en posant sa pierre, que l'on contribue à bâtir le monde.»
[ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry ] - Terre des hommes

"Ser hombre es precisamente ser responsable. Es sentir, al poner su piedra, que contribuimos a construir el mundo."

Lemuria does not exist

    Now that I sit to write, in order to give all my friends an explanation about my erratic behavior over the last few months, I look back at things and realize it all started as simple as any written line… Life, to me, can’t be that different from a text. It always starts with a single letter – with a small fragment of something… Then, other letters come along and somehow they just clutch themselves together in these chunks of meaning. And you got yourself a comedy; A tragedy; A casual story of love or madness.
    Life can’t be that different from a text. Little things that keep coming – changing place and order – composing a story.
    Well, mostly a story… Or have you never experienced some moments of plain ………………….? Never felt yourself just ?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?? I know I have been through some LRSU1I0mui2ISREA2B… Does your life’s story have these parts too? A series of random disconnected pieces, irrelevant or not, that simple won’t fit into any kind of rational meaning – as if they were summoned, or written, by the delirious mind of chaos itself.
    It’s difficult to understand life, with all this meaningless noise; Difficult to take action. But to sit down and write about things that happened in the past is slightly easier… To start with, I already know what to look for. You can calmly seek the meaning of what happened, like a hunter would do with his prey. It all depends on how good you track down entities in this forest of symbols… At this point of things, I could pick all this LRSU1I0mui2ISREA2B shit, for example, and rearrange it into “LEmURiA, 2012, SIRIuS B”… It would be simply the truth, for that’s exactly what happened to me.
    Lemuria does not exist – it’s so simple! This short and straight sentence contains, basically, everything I wanted to say. Unfortunately, I guess it can’t mean much more than LRSU1I0mui2ISREA2B to any lasting friend of mine… Besides, it wouldn’t explain my erratic behavior over the last few months.


    As I sit in this messy room, with a vodka bottle seeming to be the only useful thing among all the other crap, it amplifies my sadness to realize it’s been now two years since I left my hometown, my family and so many of my dear friends. After sometime, I guess it’s only natural for anyone to miss them… A particular friend, maybe my best friend of all times, is fundamental to this story.
    We were always into books, me and my friends. But this guy, shit, he is like my guru! In a time when Charles Bukowski was not yet cult anywhere outside the US, probably, in a small-ass city, Brazil, my friend was already reading his books and passing them to me. Through Bukowski he came out with John Fante. We had already read Kerouac… He gave me my first Aldous Huxley to read… This is a guy who would talk deeply about philosophy where everybody else was reciting: “I only know that I know nothing…” He brought Rubem Fonseca into the game. Umberto Eco. Jorge Luis Borges. Even Ernst Gombrich… My all times favorites writers, he read before I did.
    And it was the same with music and movies... He used to write, too. Best poet I ever read. And I must insist that I’m not saying this just because he was my friend. I’ve read enough now to at least try for an objective view of books and texts. I was just lucky enough to be born close to one of these amazing unknown genius; To be his friend. I’ll never forget several things I heard from him. He said once, for example, trying to convince me into going to a party: “There’s no experimental literature, Daniel, without an experimental life”. I lived by this rule... Not because it was my friend saying it; But because it was beautiful…
    I repeat: He was the best poet I ever read. And yet, maybe precisely because of that, at the age of 27, he didn’t have a job. He lived with his parents, smoked almost two packs a day – plus loads of marijuana – felt himself to be rejected and half of the people we know still thinks he was crazy.
    Now I sit in this claustrophobic room; I have six earphones and I use all of them. Things about this friend of mine keep coming back into my head; His ability to put things together. Things nobody could yet foresee…
    A quick example:
    When I was a child, nobody gave a fuck about smoking. And then this huge anti-tobacco campaign took over the world... It was such an enormous campaign that nowadays one could actually believe this intolerant view over tobacco is how it has ever been… Well, it isn’t. And at the early years of this campaign, I listened for the first time, from my friend’s mouth, a long, elaborate theory on how the very idea of getting addicted and the fear of leaving the habit was turning people into more fiercely enslaved smokers. “A dumb teenage girl with loads of makeup”, he would say, “with her fashion punk tattoo, takes her first drag, looks at the glowing ambers and thinks to herself: That’s it… I’m a smoker now. It got me! Must draw thin black lines over my eyes now and adopt a light blasé expression from now on... And nobody believes they can quit anymore, even if they aren’t even addicted yet, it’s amazing!”
    Shortly before I came to Europe, when it all started, between joints, cigarettes and bottles of beer he was borrowing me the Jacques Bergier’s and Louis Pauwels’s Morning of the Magicians, with all it’s alchemy and mysteries. He was obsessed with Charles Fort, the American researcher of the weird, the hidden and the anomalous phenomena.
    You must understand two things, now, so all my efforts of honest explanation won’t fall into the ridiculous of disbelief (so common in our modern society, always prompt to deny everything that can’t be immediately found under the old files titled: “That’s how I already think about it”).
    Well, first: I’m talking about a guy who understood Einstein in one month. A guy who told me he bought a book of Shakespeare, to see if it really was any good and, a week later, was making complicated relations about his works, on the phone, while stating he had reason to believe Marlowee, and not Bacon, was, actually, the real identity of William Shakespeare. My friend would dive into things with a strength and speed that’s not normal for most of us.
    Second thing you should know: We did not live in Montmartre or some shit like that… In my hometown, if you said: “Nietzsche”, people would reply “God bless you!” And there was my friend, lost in this place, completely clueless and careless about what other people can and cannot understand… I’ve seem him speaking things like: “Hum… And all that Shrek shit is nothing but another phallic reference in children movies… Shrek is nothing but the pretension to do a phallic philosophic masterpiece, presented in the same basic way all philosophy started: The dialog! Shrek is the man, trying to live his live by his own law, a man who senses his own depths and get lost inside it; And Donkey is his penis – annoying and eluding the poor man while, at the same time, serving as a connection between him and the world out there... Eddie Murphy DOES look like a penis, if you come to think of it…”
    An important fact about this episode is that my friend wasn’t addressing his theory to a teenage geek boy; He was talking to an old country grandpa, in a bus stop! You could tell the old man didn’t understand even what the fuck was Shrek. He didn’t understand the word “phallic”, neither seemed too eager to get in a conversation with an unconforming punk, probably drugged, can’t-respect-their-elders kid who, probably influenced by communism, was crapping all these things about a penis...
    My friend would also, very often, for example, give ultra-condensed-far-away answers to people’s questions. He didn’t use to speak or talk like a normal person. That’s why his poetry is so beautiful. He made a new language, in which he’s able to say more than meaningless robotic crap. And nobody has the smallest notion of what he is talking about, most of the time, so they can’t really tell when he is just kidding from the times he really means something that just seems funny.
    As he was a really nice guy and everybody liked him, his idiosyncrasies never really bothered anyone. They would say, laughing, things like: “He is crazy”, and he would say something even crazier, and they would all laugh some more and drink and go to sleep.
    But knowing him for so long, and having followed his cultural footsteps, I’m proud to say I could understand most of the things he was talking or writing about.
    After some time in Europe, through our e-mails, I started noticing he continued to evolve. And as I wasn’t around anymore – to immediately borrow the books and hear the insights that would allow me to keep up with his development – it was a sad thing to feel I was slipping away from my friends in something deeper than time and space. I was distancing myself from them also in an intellectual way. My friend was reaching for a level of understanding of things that simple didn’t seem to be allowed to me anymore. It was a sad feeling, and I felt small. And I wished I was there with him.
    And then came the reptilian shape shifting men and the Illuminati. Smithsonian. The Bilderberg Group. Hidden fossils of giant men... Came the Lemurian mystics. A huge net of alternative interpretations of the world we live in, so commonly known as “Conspiracy theories”. “Well”, he would say, “in a world where the only sure thing about leaders is that they are lying to you, I can’t understand how a conspiracy theory can be seen as any other thing than a treasure. Besides, even the people sincerely honest about their believes, well… Chances are they don’t have any fucking clue what they are talking about anyway…”
    Of course he wouldn’t say EXACTLY those words over there… That’s my translation of his speech. HE would say something like: “Paranoia should be welcomed with an open smile, you know? At least it shows you can think, and that you’re not thinking about how to put a price on my ass…”
    I realize now I’ve being taking too long to say anything. There is no excuse. I’m sorry… Please, forgive the babbling of a dying man… It’s nothing dramatic, you see? I’ve always had this feeling that I’m dying. Right now, as I am writing this, I’m dying. And if you are reading these things, it means you are dying too. It’s nothing new, really.
    And after so much cold, I got a warm feeling with these silly memories… I’m getting somewhere, but I am not in a hurry. I’m sorry, but you are also the reason I take my time and make this longer than it could be. You there, reading. You are probably my friend, and I probably miss you. Even if I do meet you everyday, I know it won’t be forever – I know that it won’t even be for long, and as I shake your hand, or listen to you, I miss you already.
    So, please, leave me with my banquet to feast. Have a little patience with your lonely friend who’s tired and felt himself so old already at the age of 23.
    If I could, now, I probably would hold you. It’s cheesy, but I’m dying. We are all men, and nothing human can be foreign to us. So please let me hold you all in my mind for a little bit longer, as I progress with the story.
    I tried to keep up with Alcides, this friend I’ve being talking about, but it was too difficult. Besides the distance, I also had some kind of suspicious feeling about all this conspiracy theory stuff, mixed with (I’m ashamed to admit) that kind of natural fear a small-city soul can feel towards this type of paranoia. There’s some crap that’s just creepy…
    My friend, though, was going deeper than ever. He seemed completely lost among his researches about giant skeletons and lost continents. If it seemed useless and creepy to me, I must admit that most philosophy will seen useless and weird to most people too... Philosophy is the kind of thing that “makes people go crazy…” This kind of prejudice was already lost in my past. I would never think of criticizing my friend’s studies.
    And he was my best friend, so I even tried to follow him. But I just don’t have what it takes to keep up with him in real-time. And, as I have already said, he was going deeper and faster as I’d never seen before.
    It’s not easy to part from the comfortable company of regular science. Studying alchemy, for example, is way more complicated then studying math. Alchemy, I believe, is the hardest thing in the field of literature.
    If you study math, at least you know which books you should be reading. One thing leads to another, and you follow… People do tests all around the world to show that some books and theories are wrong. And they have public debates about it and you just discard most of the crap.
    But in the occult, you can’t separate, before reading, the crap from the gold. Almost every crooked writer in the world is talking about some paranormal or occult magic shit. And truth is an ignorant eye will be unable to tell the crooked from the magicians.
    I could send you some zen texts, in a milder example, that are extremely profound to me – but look plainly silly for most people. And still, zen is not as misguiding as the occult. The zen guys WANT you to understand. They talk in an elevated language – too elevated for the mundane – about elevated things that are too elevated to be understood through mundane thinking, but they WANT you to understand them.
    The alchemists, uheahueahuae, they are trying to hide it from you. They are writing that only for THEMSELVES, you see? They want to leave you out of the game…
    And how many alchemists, how many true alchemists, can exist in the world simultaneously? Well, some would say they became immune to age; That they learned how to transmute themselves... All right, even considering that, what about the old alchemists? The ones that started it all, through the ages... The ancient alchemists who gave us the popular image of the white bearded, point-hated nice wizard… How many of them could exist in the world in a certain age?
    If they wanted to write only for themselves, the mail would not do… They had to write in code, through the ages… And their code is a fucking unbreakable one. It’s a simple code, but it’s hidden too high – kept safe from children’s hands.
    The way to break the alchemist’s code is very easy, actually. You just have to reach for it. It’s simple. You go there, you get there. It’s just like swimming.
    The problem, well, is the distance…
    You must get wiser. You must learn more about the world, and how to relate things about it. You must discover its secrets… Forget about things you learned in school… “H” is hydrogen, “O” for oxygen… Try to really understand sulfur… Know it by its color, smell and so many other properties… To know lead, gold, stones, stars, plants and to distillate water for thousands of times waiting for the magic mystery of knowing more and more… You push and push and make your mind expand… You make it explode! And if you can get there – or while you can have a glimpse of that, you can understand what they are saying. It’s just like swimming…
    Just like swimming from Brazil to Africa, I believe.
    My friend, for all I know, was already riding a bicycle through China…
    But he was not really into alchemy. Not anymore… His obsession was Lemuria. The giant wise people who lived inside Mont Shasta after the continent was gone. On how they still existed and how fascinating they must be. He wrote to me:

(Actually, even if I planned to put here exactly what he said, I would still be translating from the Portuguese. And I do believe that even if you could read Portuguese, chances are you wouldn’t understand much if you didn’t know my friend deeply. So I’ll translate it to my simpler, much poorer descriptive and logical language… But I must admit some parts of it were, and still are, also obscure to me. I’ll just try as hard as I can)

     “I’m sure they’re still out there… Some place unknown to men, that’s most likely impossible to be known to men by pure means of deducting and searching. They were highly disturbed in Mount Shasta. Dr. Harvey Spencer Lewis suggests they moved location, with the help of ‘a selected few’… A line of arguing that shows very clearly Dr. Harvey Spencer didn’t know SHIT of what he was talking about… Why should a superior race need our help to go anywhere? It also annoys me these people saying the Lemurians created men so we could collect gold for them... If that was the case, why do we have so much gold in Egyptians artifacts, churches and so on? When Francisco Pizarro kidnapped Atahualpa didn’t he ask, among other things, for a full room of gold as a ransom for the Inca emperor? This was the biggest known ransom in the whole History of human kind, by the way… Pizarro killed Atahualpa and kept the gold. So, if the Lemurians were here really after the gold, how come the Inca empire still had that much after Lemuria had sank already? Why do we still have so much old and new gold everywhere, if they really needed it so badly in Sirius B? Of course they weren’t looking for gold! Gold is only valuable to us – and not even to all of us, as many are not greedy”
     “Most of Lemuria’s public history was written by fools who had a lucky glimpse of things as they truly are! The truth about Lemuria is out there, somehow, but it’s too far from reach for simple people to find it. For someone to explain it on a youtube video…”
     “I have this feeling… I wonder if you have ever felt it too... Sometimes I’m reading a book, or watching a movie… Sometimes it’s looking at a painting, or at a famous building… And I can feel there are sings in there… Sings even the author surely didn’t see… Men were not made to be identical gold-digger slaves. I mean, look at DNA, Daniel… Find a 3D DNA drawing over the Internet and take a moment to look at it… Advanced engineering!… It’s THERE, for everyone to see… It’s very clear that DNA is a product of some engineering shit… We are their ultimate machine… And why would the creator of men put in our basic program – at our very BIOS – that we should not procreate with mother, for example? They need diversity…”
     “When you pick up the texts inspired or dictated by the ‘gods’ themselves, the Sumerian texts, for instance, and you read, like: ‘…use clay to form the first men, who would toil and farm so that the gods could relax”, these stupid monkey-brain fuckers think they were talking about gold! Daniel, have you forgotten all we ever talked about Kant? About space, time, and about these things being not an objective thing in the universe, but only the shape in which our minds can see and understand the universe? So… These… These FARMERS can’t think out of the box… They, the gods, want diversity… Maybe there are a lot of tasks and they want different types of man to perform them… Maybe only a few of us, like Socrates, or Jesus, can perform this task they created us to do… Maybe we are performing this task only by being born, or being alive… Maybe we’re just batteries in a dream world, like in that Matrix movie… I can’t really tell yet. But I hope to know it, if I have enough time…”
     “I see signs in works of art. As if in the highest reaches of the human work their signs, the signs of Lemuria, are made clear… They appear without any desire in our minds to make them… Lemurians are our manufacturers, and their company number keeps showing if you look deep enough…”
     “There’s no sense in looking for them anywhere in space. All these companies trying to keep the knowledge for themselves… It’s useless. They tried some fun at Mount Shasta and it didn’t work. They’re out of our reach now, for sure. But the answer must be around, lying somewhere for everyone to see it... If you live inside a car, there must be a way you can get to the engine. I sit in my bed and focus… I concentrate and send messages for them to find me… I try to create any kind of disturbance in the system around me… I don’t know yet pretty much of what am I doing, but I’m trying…”
     “I also started to look for their signs in nature… If it shows in art, in must be out there… The perfect message, randomly written somewhere... Have you heard of fractal? The golden ratio… The very manual of the world as we know it may be out there, somehow... Some times I think I’ve found it… Something that catches my eyes for no reason… Something that has being always there, and nobody cared to think of it as a simple code… For a long time I considered it could be written in the black spots over the skin of a jaguar… Maybe Borges was right…”


    He sent me the pictures of the poor animal, almost anemic, sadly staring to the camera through the bars at the zoo in the nearest big city. And I couldn’t define if I was more depressed by the animal’s look or by my friend’s obsession.
    In the months that followed, he wrote fewer and fewer messages, too deep in symbology and delirium for me to decipher completely at the time... He wrote things about seeing kaleidoscope-like green images when he was deep into his Lemuria-calling states of trance. I first took that as some kind of metaphor for saying something else, but I was wrong...
    I had the chance to talk with a few other friends about it. But they – as apparently everyone else also did – took all of those things as just another “crazy talk” my friend always used to babble. They couldn’t tell shit from Shinola. I honestly thought he could be going crazy, but I still tried to follow his footsteps, even if I could never keep up with him.
    And then he got normal again, as if out of some trance. As if he had already dug deep enough to get the main picture and felt satisfied, just waiting to settle a couple of details…
    He sent me this e-mail… I guess it won’t be really difficult to understand, if you’ve being paying attention to what I wrote. I’ll try to translate it directly from his words this time… He wrote to me:

     “I was into a club this weekend, staring into a lot of these emo-goth-indie-hype kids while they were dancing. And one of them, shit, he made a pose… Like, he just crossed his arms and stared at the roof, kind of sideways. He evaluated the place, I guess, and wondered not how did he feel about the music – as my hole generation would think of dancing – but as how HE SOULD LOOK IN THE GENERAL PICTURE OF THE CLUB! He put himself into an impersonal point of view, as if he were, in fact, a camera, and imagined, in that composition, what should be the function and position of the object ‘Me’ on the dance floor!”
     “He actually got into a quite fitting pose, by the way… It looked just as if you were staring into a real-time video clip”
     “And then I think about the fire that will strike the Earth in 2012. I think about the Coevo Man, about available credits and finances, at the cool dudes with i-pods, killer snickers and cell phones. Think about the phone companies and about Bradesco and Itaú and in the economical growth, about the age where all the words are trade marks and all the sentences are slogans. Think of the faustic men, of the cosmic-historical men, of the men-beyond-the-men, but can only see the consuming men. My mind works unquestioned for the first time in my life, it’s unanimous. I’m the one who’s asking, I’m the one who’s answering it. It’s me inside my father’s scrotum. It’s me in my mother’s womb: there was a friend of mine, when I was around nine, someone told him: ‘The sky is infinite’, the kid went mad. He really got crazy, insane, left school, walking around with shit in his pants staring at the sky repeating: ‘there’s no end’, ’there’s no end’. Beyond any moralistic metaphor about curiosity, I can’t remember the kid’s name, I remember his mother’s name for it was the name of a country, Argentina. ’The sky is infinite’. The planet is History by now, the end is traveling through the light years. It’s History... Gone. Even the end can’t be understood by our notion of time. Nobody understands the end, nobody realizes the explosions that started so many years ago burning everything in slow motion, even the fire tongues that will lick the Earth, even the fire tongues of the visionary poet are insufficient images. The consuming men need another new image of the end. And up to the very last second they won’t see anything, until the meteor gets to a few centimeters of your nose. The world is finished already. The world has already come to an end and the ants work so that six men can see Mercury, so that a robot can film Saturn’s rings. I’m also the NASA, and my ego is the greatest common divisor and the least common multiple, it’s the undividable scientia… Three million cells birth-dying. How many billion planets in my nail? (…) The finger pressing the resurrection button belongs to a hand with blood stains. After the sustained moment of silence and a portal, even before one can look back to stare at the blues land, you are sucked back. Why can’t it be fatal? This sense of humanity is fucked up. If someone in Arabia fucks a jaguar, that’s it, I fucked a jaguar, and if a salesman marries an eleven years old girl, fucked up, I’m a children rapist. If a smartass discovers microbe in Mars, that’s it. I’m Mars. I’m microbe. I’m smartass”

    He was saying he could see and understand things most people couldn’t… I guess he was right... He was also talking very clearly about a sense of humanity – of being part of things, of everything, and about the stupidity of denying your destiny. He could not omit himself. If no one but him could see it clearly, he could not let it alone and just wait for someone else to take action. He had to do something about it. It was his obligation.
    My friend came to believe, at the end, in some kind of heaven. Heaven on Earth, I mean. He believed these forces were actually bringing the world to a better place... The old lizard men who took control of our nations, according to him, were the real slaves, you see? The old litany of "God writes straight with crooked lines"… In his mind, we were not slaves at all… We were not meant to be mere machines, no! We were, actually, the Lemurians highest, purest and most divine kind of art!
    We could even stand behind some glass in an exposition right now, as you read me. The whole History of mankind is, to him, like a symphony. Like a movie, or a play in a theater. A painting… Only these are OUR forms of art. Art has to do with the ability of manipulating matter – manipulating words, or colors, or swords, or even food, for example. We do what we can… The Lemurians could do more than spread some colored sand glued into paint over a white cloth... They could create, for example, us! “Genesis was right”, he would say; “Planet Earth is nothing but an arranged stage for us… Maybe we’re the result of the efforts of their whole people, for many ages… Maybe we’re their propose in life –Who knows? It can very well be that for ages they only lived to create this form of art – our DNA, our History and everything else… Or maybe we’re but a soon-to-be-thrown-in-the-trash sketch over a losers table… Who knows? And all the wars, all the misery and pain the lizard race have caused us – it is all part of the Lemurians beautiful plan... Of their artistic script. A fate controlling us like the gods we create, vengeful and merciful at the same time…”
     “That’s the plan”, he would go on. “The reptilians are necessary for the beautiful ending… As the New World Order gets out of its womb, causing a level of destruction unknown to men, after a struggle that lasted thousands of years, we will finally understand – through this most evident collapse of all our material pretensions – that the spiritual side, the artistic side of life, is more fulfilling than the desires of the flesh…”
    What the Mayans did with their Long Count calendar, according to him, was not to calculate the ages of time itself, but simply to separate the work in acts! And at this last act, not only will we have amazing tragedies of apocalyptical proportions; We will also have the most beautiful shows of grace and high achievement throughout the human race!
    This is such a beautiful way of thinking; to me it’s touching… My friend is a poet and a noble man… He thought everything was full of beauty and believed he should not ignore the calling to be a part of things… Oh, shameful situation… I’m not a poet, neither a noble man…
    In my isolated, misfit life I had opportunity to observe everything coldly and grow suspicious of things. Beauty, to me, if I’m to be perfectly honest, is but a psychedelic mushroom growing among the shit.
    And I also tend to notice helping hands are often devoid of tenderness... You can touch a wounded man, trying to help, and just hurt him more… And, ah, the backslash… The wounded man, in pain, instinctively tries to protect himself, and hurts the helping hand reaching for him… It’s shameful to admit it, but I do believe sometimes is best not to help at all… Even if you’re the only one able to do it… Some times, SPECIALLY if you’re the only one able to do it…
    And, most sad of it all, if I observe things as coldly as I can, it’s not my friend’s way of thinking that meets confirmation on the real world.
    You see, though I followed his footsteps and read whatever he recommended, or mentioned is his intricate messages, and though I read and reread everything he wrote so many times, trying to decode all of that delirious poetry, I can’t come to agree with his point of view. I’ve found reason to believe he was tragically wrong…
    If the Lemurians are a kind wise people hiding from us, as they made us believe, guiding our destiny with artistic hands, why do these things keep on coming back to my head? If it was an artistic magical secret my friend was revealing through his efforts to understand, then why do these things keep on appearing before me? After my friend disappeared, I did not want to follow his footsteps any longer… I tried just to stop, but it won’t go away…
    The greenish kaleidoscope-like images fill me with fear… I don’t want to find the Lemurians. I DON’T WANT TO GO TO THEM! I think they’re EVIL!
    Nevertheless, if I’m distracted, I discover my self thinking about them… Some part of my brain seems to be trying to contact them, as a joke or something... At least this is the excuse my body gives to myself… “Every joke has a background of reality”… Some would say… Where I come from, they say that “Every joke has a slight background of a joke”
    And I discovered myself doing, unintentionally, the same thing my friend believed to be “focusing” to do: Trying to cause a disturbance in my environment, so they will find me.
    And why is that picture constantly on my mind? The picture my friend sent me, of the depressed jaguar at the zoo. It kept coming back, and every time it came, it came with more details… I can’t be sure if these details were actually in the picture, of if it’s a shape my reptilian mind created on its own, only based on what I saw in the real picture... I could see more and more details… And now all I got are the spots… I don’t want to decipher them, or anything. I didn’t even would want to think about them anymore! I see patterns now… They are just rearranging themselves as they keep on returning…
    I think of hiding paranoia, of aluminium foil paper… How many people have I seen in the movies, putting shit over their heads so “they” could not capture their thoughts? I fear now it’s something much worse than any satellite could be… I feel it’s an internal mechanism I’ve triggered….
    But I don’t have enough time. The morning comes already and I need to sleep. My mind is trying to call them again, and who knows what can happen in the wild land of dreams? What matters is that I’m still here right now, and I still have the ability to speak clearly, I guess, and to keep my focus on what really matters. So, please, don’t let my babbling make you lose the main point here.
    I’m convinced that all of this conspiracy theory has nothing to do with reality. No relation whatsoever with the real world… But it’s also something not to be underestimated. It holds one with a strong power over his mind. So, as you already have a reasonable fellowman inside here, checking the room and letting you know it’s an insane, useless trip to the downward spiral towards nothing, please, just trust me. Don’t waist your time trying to check any of this information online, or anywhere else. It’s all nonsense… Bullshit… If you start to feel interested in any of these subjects, just admit you’re going down a dangerous, useless road and turn back.
    Turn back, right now, and head to your previous, comfortable, safe, harmless life, as there is nothing you can do that will really change anything but your chance of being happy while anyone can still be happy around here.
    Turn back now, friend, and care not where I go, or what happens to me. If you ever want to honor my memory one day, don’t look for me or do anything silly like carrying flowers to the places I’ve been… Care not for me in a personal manner, as I, myself, won’t care to do it. If you want to do something for me, please, just repeat to yourself this easy, practical truth about a safe, healthy life that I leave behind:
    Lemuria does not exist.